


Cross

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Deathfic, Horror, Madness, R/NC-17 - Red Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-08
Updated: 2008-04-08
Packaged: 2019-01-20 16:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12437355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Part three of the Psycho!Samatic Cycle. The crackedness goes on and it's never ending - Sam continues the game.





	Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** The film quote is from _War Games_ , starring an incredibly young Matthew Broderick.

It happened as it always did, sometime between sunset and the bottom of a bottle of whisky. Between waking and sleeping and the dreams of the damned.

 

 

A high-pitched whine, bleary eyes opened to stare into the face of a knowing grin.

 

 

"Sam, Sam. What are we going to do?"

 

 

"Die," he croaked, his mouth dry with sleep and alcohol. He brought his hands up, already wrapped in the rope he proceeded to wind around her neck, pulling it up and taut.

 

 

It didn't take long, it never did.

 

 

By the time she had slumped against him, finally letting go of the stupid clown doll, Sam was fully awake and planning his next move. He almost had it down to a fine art as he snagged the bucket from the bottom of the wardrobe, hoisting the girl over his shoulder. She didn't weigh much, they never weighed much. The consequences of being a shade, or merely a little girl, he didn't know and didn't much care. Almost as an afterthought he grabbed the whisky bottle as well. 

 

 

He dumped her in the bath, checking her pulse as he did so. Once or twice earlier on he'd managed to pull too hard, killing the girl instantly. Which wouldn't do at all. But, practice makes perfect and the pulse was strong and slow. Just right for what he had in mind. He positioned the bucket, supported her weight in his right arm, and pulled the blade of his new penknife across her neck. Both arteries spurted at once and she gurgled as air from the hole in her trachea mingled with the blood. The spray hit the bucket, rebounding in a fine arc and spattering Sam's undershirt. "Christ," he muttered. He would have to get rid of it before anyone noticed.

 

 

He removed his arm, carefully, making sure she was still balanced over the bucket. The flood was slowing now as the heart stopped. But he had a while yet. He sat back against the bath and unscrewed the cap on the whisky bottle.

* * * * *

Hours later, in the pre-dawn light, Sam propped the girl's body up against a wall and carefully positioned the clown doll in her arms. About to walk away, he remembered the scene earlier. "My game," he muttered; looking for, and finding, a piece of chalky stone on the ground.

 

 

Scratching four lines into a grid, he was reminded of an old quote from a film still ten years in the future. _The only way to win the game is not to take part_. Making his mark on the grid, Sam grimaced. Too late for that. This game had been going on for a while now and it wouldn't do to quit just as the stakes were increased.

 

 

And, besides, what else was he going to do?

 

 

_fin_


End file.
